


Step Over the Line

by Penelopiad



Series: Step Over the Line [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (somewhat), Canada, Confessions, Future Fic, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penelopiad/pseuds/Penelopiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny's never been to Patrick's hometown, and Patrick's never been to Jonny's, for anything other than hockey. They don't step into each other's spaces like that—Chicago is their home, it's the place they share, and that's enough. Until Jonny calls Patrick in the middle of summer and tells him to come to Winnipeg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step Over the Line

**Author's Note:**

> First hockey RPF fic >.>
> 
> Thanks to E. and A. for their good words and quick beta. And for making me (re)discover my love of hockey.
> 
> No thanks to E. and A. for inadvertently inceptionning me into this fandom. NO THANKS YOU HEAR ME. *shakes fist*

 

 

It’s something about the light. It must be. 

Jonny’s waiting for him near the baggage claim dressed in worn jeans and a soft-looking t-shirt, a cap low on his forehead. He leans on a pillar, hands in his pockets, shoulders low and loose, and juts his chin out at Patrick with a small closed-lip smile, skin darker than the last time Patrick saw him. Mid-July sunshine comes pouring in from the round skylights of the airport, makes everything shimmer and hazy. It catches Patrick unaware, dizzying him into seeing Jonny anew, somehow, while still looking so deeply familiar.

“It’s good to see you, man,” he says as he drops his bag and wraps his arms around Jonny’s shoulders to hug him. When he closes his eyes—shuts out the Winnipeg light—it’s easier to ignore everything that’s new, to focus only on the well-known weight of Jonny hugging him back.

It’s weird. It’s just— _weird_. To be here. 

The thing is. See, the thing is, to play hockey means to play _for_ something: a team, first, but then a town, a city, a state, a country, whatever. A _place_ , tied to their identity as hockey players just as it is to their identity as people outside the game.

Chicago is Patrick’s place, Jonny’s too. They came to it together and the city sprawled before their too-young, too-eager eyes like it needed to be conquered and owned. And they rose to the challenge, made it theirs the only way they knew how: by playing the best hockey they could play. Chicago’s all tied up with hockey and home and future in Patrick’s mind. And he shares all of these things with Jonny.

But Patrick will also always be that American kid from Buffalo. And Jonny will always be that Canadian dude from Winnipeg. These places belong to them separately just as much as Chicago belongs to both of them.

And maybe this is it, maybe that’s what’s fucking with Patrick’s mind, because Winnipeg belongs to Jonny. Patrick’s always been here for hockey, always with the team, never in the middle of the summer when the city’s only Jonny’s and Patrick has no good reason to be here.

“Thanks for coming,” Jonny says, so close to Patrick’s neck his breath glides over his skin and Patrick clenches his fists a couple of times against Jonny’s back, keeps the shiver inside his spine.

Yeah sure, at the end of the season he and Jonny always wish each other a nice summer with cursory invitations of the “Come visit any time” and “You’re always welcomed” kind. Something polite and friendly they never take the other up on, their silent agreement being they’ll see each other later at the convention. Patrick might make a disparaging comment about Winnipeg and Canada just to fuck with Jonny, but yeah, they’ve never stepped into each other’s personal home-spaces before, never needed to.

Jonny had called Patrick in Buffalo a couple days ago, as he does a few times during off-season. He asked about Patrick’s summer and then after his parents and his sisters, made a _totally inappropriate_ joke about asking Erica out like he thought it was _funny_ —getting back at Patrick for his Winnipeg “bashing” like the tool he is. Then, with the tone of voice Patrick hadn’t heard in a long time—the late-at-night one made for secrets, for when they were still roommates, where only the darkness and being young and far away from home could pull certain things out of them—he’d said:

“Hey. Pat. Come to Winnipeg.”

Well.

Well, Patrick had his tickets booked, his bags packed, and was on the plane before even the possibility of refusing crossed his mind.

Because when Jonny says ‘jump’, Patrick invariably says “fuck you” and “how high” in the same breath.

 

\- - -

 

Canada’s vast as fuck. 

“Do you want points for stating the obvious?” Jonny says.

“Shut up. I was just saying. Eyes on the road, asshole.” 

_Obviously_ the general size of Canada is old news, Patrick’s not an idiot. But it’s one of those things so obvious it’s easy to forget they’re there until they make themselves remembered again.

Besides, it’s not like Patrick has ever seen this part of Canada. There’s vastness in America, too, but not like here. Or at least, it feels different, emptier in a way, or filled differently.

The sun’s bright and blinding and the wind whips at Patrick’s hair, harsh and warm through the car’s open window. He slides down in his seat, getting comfortable, and leans his head against the headrest, turning it to look at Jonny’s profile. From this angle, with the sun flooding Jonny’s face, the shadows behind his sunglasses are brown and dark, but not enough Patrick can’t still see the small lines at the corner of Jonny’s eyes.

“Where are we going?” he asks when it’s clear they’ve left Winnipeg behind them, buildings getting smaller in the side mirror. “Is this some kind of On the Road thing?”

Jonny gives an incredulous snort because he’s a huge douchebag. “What do you know about On the Road, Kaner?”

“Fuck you, I read. I’m cultured and shit.”

“Whatever,” Jonny says with an incredulous raise of his eyebrows. But since Patrick isn’t a complete jerk like _certain someones_ , he settles on slapping Jonny in the chest with the back of his hand instead of punching his shoulder hard with his knuckles. He’s totally the bigger man, here.

Jonny full-on smiles at that, rubs at his chest, thin cotton scrunching up under his fingers where it looks soft and warm with light. The lines at the corner of his eyes get deeper, darker with it. 

“Cabin,” Jonny says, not taking his eyes off the road. “You can sleep if you want, it’ll take a few hours.”

“I’m good,” Patrick says, but slides down more in the seat, pulls the window half-way up so less wind is in his face. 

He’s content enough not asking any questions about where they’re going, to let Jonny take them there and to just enjoy the ride, see where they end up. Anyone who says Patrick hasn’t grown up can go fuck themselves.

He even lets Jonny put some of his godawful country music on, something low with some guy strumming his guitar that, Patrick is annoyed to admit to himself, fits the way the sun feels on his face, and the way the land stretches wide and open around them, sky bright blue and cloudless.

Jonny’s legs are opened to the side—right knee knocking on the gearstick—not straight and stiff the way they are when he drives around Chicago. He has one arm on the open windowsill, fingers of the other hand hooked to the bottom of the wheel. 

He _fills_ the space around him.

No matter how vast Canada is, this is Jonny’s corner of it and he owns it in a way that makes something shift inside Patrick, deep and low in his chest, tight behind his lungs. It’s like he’s seeing a side of Jonny for the first time, something only glimpsed in pictures of fishing trips and lakes and boats. He’s not sure if he’s happy to be able to finally be part of that space—to stand in it with Jonny instead of looking on at it—scared shitless because it’s new and unknown territory, or sad because it took so long. Probably all of the above.

Patrick closes his eyes for a moment, for some respite.

“Are you taking me to your lake?” he says, working past the lump in his throat.

“It’s not _my_ lake. And no.”

“Pretty sure it has your name on it, man.” Patrick stares at Jonny’s profile, the way he scrunches up his nose, and huffs a laugh. “You’re not going to make me fish, are you?” 

“Only if you want to eat.” Jonny smirks at him in that douchey smug way of his and it snaps Patrick back into place instantly.

He groans. “You fucking suck, man. I hate you.”

Jonny’s laughter fills the car over the whistling of the wind and the sound of soft country music, and Patrick turns his head toward his window to hide his face against his shoulder.

He closes his eyes, lets the warmth of the sun lull him to sleep.

 

\- - -

 

Jonny takes them out on his boat pretty much as soon as they get to the cabin. He drops their bags inside the door, shoves a few groceries in the fridge before grabbing a cooler and setting out for the dock. Patrick raises his eyebrows at his back and is about to ask what’s the goddamn hurry, but there’s a determination in Jonny’s eyes, in the flat line of his mouth as he surveys the boat, and it makes Patrick bites his tongue.

He can’t help a “What, no fishing rods?” when he’s comfortable in the boat, though.

Jonny looks back at him from where he’s bent over the motor with a flat expression. “Don’t push your luck, Kaner.”

Patrick only grins.

When Jonny stops the boat far from the shore, the sound resonates for a moment then dies away to be replaced by the soft lapping of the water against the sides, and the faint chirping of birds. 

The sun is brutal overhead and Patrick pulls his cap lower over his eyes.

It’s… nice. Really nice.

Jonny’s brought sandwiches and beers, and they eat while he tells Patrick about coming to the cabin when he was young, how it was to spend a few weeks every summer here. His voice’s soft, but carries well in the empty space between them. The air’s heavy and hot, smells like water and algae, like salty skin and sunscreen and beer.

“It took forever for dad to let me and David go out alone in the boat after that. Mom was furious, god. I think that’s the angriest I’ve ever seen her,” Jonny says around his last mouthful, then smiles to himself, lowers his head, casting his face in shadows under his cap, and Patrick finds himself bending down a bit to keep sight of it.

“Angrier than when you got arrested with Oshie for underaged drinking?” Patrick says because he’ll never tire of the way Jonny’s face contorts when people mention his criminal past. 

But Jonny just shrugs and says, “Well, nobody came close to dying that time so…”

Patrick hums, shifts on his seat, boat shaking under him, and looks out over the water at the deep green treeline on the shore, feeling off-kilter again.

“So,” Jonny says, and Patrick turns back to look at him. Jonny takes a sip of his beer, licks his lips. “Here’s the thing.” He stops and seems to gather his thoughts, so Patrick takes a drink of his own beer, never looking away from Jonny’s serious face and waits it out, because he’s patient now; it’s something he does now.

“I love you.”

Patrick spits out his beer. Some of it goes up his nose.

“Motherfuck—What?” He coughs and Jonny just looks at him, amused and unimpressed and more than a little exasperated. Pat has no idea how the fuck he does it for someone who can be so expressionless at times. How Patrick’s able to recognize all these things just by looking at him even as his eyes water is also a goddamn mystery. “ _What?_ ”

“You heard me.”

Patrick wipes at his face and glares at Jonny, clears his throat twice.

“Dude, it doesn’t mean much if you can’t even repeat it.”

Jonny rolls his eyes and pushes the side of his neck with his fingers. “I’m in love with you, you dickface. There. Happy?”

Patrick’s heart is beating too fast and air isn’t making it to his lungs. His skin feels tight and constricting, too warm, and his fingers are numb around his beer. And yet, everything’s expanding and opening, lighter than it was a few seconds ago. Maybe this is what it feels like to go into shock from happiness, or elation, or sheer goddamn relief. Whatever. Patrick’s way past feeling ashamed for being a giant romcom in his head when he looks at Jonathan Toews.

It becomes painfully obvious, though, after a long silence, that the fucking life-changing emotional upheaval Jonny’s set in motion inside of Patrick does not show at all on his face. Jonny’s frown just gets deeper by the second in that weird pull on his eyebrows he does, lips pinched tight, while he still tries to appear like he’s not increasingly upset or hurt by the whole thing. It’s such a dumb look because Jonny’s never done nonchalance very well. 

Patrick’s stupidly in love with him.

He still can’t say anything though, still looks at Jonny’s loser face because it’s the best thing ever. 

“I—Well…” Jonny starts, eyes darting around and not looking at Patrick. And god, _God_ , Patrick will lick his scrunchy, constipated face any second now if he doesn’t stop. “For fuck’s sake, Pat, say something.”

And there it is. Jonny’s familiar annoyance at him snaps Patrick back into the moment. There was a time when it angered Patrick what Jonny could so easily do to him just by being his completely ridiculous self. But he’s accepted a long time ago he was sort of totally fucked the moment he met Jonny, and whatever or whomever happened in the years between then and now, it never stopped being true in one way or another.

Patrick smiles. 

“Jonny. I’m in _Winnipeg_.”

Jonny still looks hurt-angry, but the corner of his mouth twitches and Patrick just beams at him until it bursts out of Jonny in an incredulous, yet happy outburst.

“It doesn’t mean much if you can’t even say it _once_ , Pat.”

Patrick takes another sip of his beer and puts it in a cup holder before stretching his leg out to rest the side of his foot against Jonny’s. 

“Fine, dickbag,” he says, leaning forward, arms on his knees and looking right in Jonny’s eyes, because that’s how you fucking do confessions of love. “I love you, like, a whole fucking lot. I have for a long time.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Well, good. That had the potential of getting pretty fucking awkward.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure—I mean, I hoped? But...”

Patrick narrows his eyes at Jonny. “Is that why you took me on a boat? So I wouldn’t fuck off?”

“What? No!”

Jonny looks to the side and rubs at the back of his neck, takes off his cap and runs a hand over his head before putting it back on. He even bites his lip.

“Jonny,” Patrick says, and kicks at his leg. “Jonny, did you think it would be _romantic_? Were you trying to woo me? Because you totally could have done that back at your house in Winnipeg. But you took me to your lake and—”

“It’s not my lake. This isn’t even—”

“ _And_ took me for a boat ride. Made me sandwiches…”

“Ugh, shut up. Jesus, you’re such a dick.”

Patrick just beams at him, can feel his face hurt with it.

Jonny’s back to fully smiling at him now, eyes crinkling and everything, like he can’t quite help it either. He’s so beautiful and such a douche and Patrick just—He just—He needs to know first if—

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Jonny says.

Patrick takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on his shorts, but still keeps his foot right against Jonny’s. It helps him somehow, grounds him. Because Patrick’s more patient now, and he wants to get this right, needs to, really.

“After you tell me what’s the plan,” he says.

“The plan.” Jonny raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“Oh don’t give me that face, man. I know you have a plan. You’re not, like, the most spontaneous person in the world, don’t even front.”

It’s an understatement. Patrick will give points to Jonny; he’s gotten much better over the years, but Jonny’s always been ridiculously organised when it comes to the things he cares about, namely hockey. And neither of them are retired, so. There’s a plan.

“Fuck you, I can be spontaneous.”

“Dude. You _plan_ your spontaneity.”

Patrick can’t blame Jonny. Hockey players are a lot about routines, it’s cool. He gets it. And, yeah, Jonny can do spontaneity. Of a sort. Namely he’ll choose an off day and tell Patrick to be ready at 9am sharp. When Patrick asks what they’re going to do Jonny will just say something along the lines of “Whatever we want, man. We’ll see,” all smug and proud, like it’s the best fucking idea ever and isn’t Patrick fucking glad Jonny thought of it.

“Jonny,” he says, softer, because Jonny’s got a sort of pissed off, hurt look on his face and isn’t looking at Patrick. “I just—This has been a long time coming, right? And I know you. I know you so well, it fucking scares me sometimes. And—You gotta tell me how we’re going to play this. You have to tell me what’s the play.”

“You’re just going to argue with me.”

“That’s what I do, babe.” And it gets a another laugh out of Jonny and a roll of eyes. Pat leans forward again. “I want you to tell me, because I know you’ve thought about it in all its boring details before you even called me. And because I—I need you to. To, I don’t know, lay down the rules. Because once I go over there and kiss you, all bets are off, man. I don’t think I’ll ever want to stop.”

Jonny stares at him, face half in shadows under his cap, and eyes so dark and so wide. Maybe Patrick’s words, or maybe his voice, whatever, said way more than he was willing to say at this point. Maybe Jonny won’t get it. Maybe he’s not deep-neck in this the way Patrick feels all the time. 

But then, awe blooms on Jonny’s face, genuinely surprised, and that—that’s _new_ , and fuck, _fuck_ , Patrick did that, and he might just cry.

Jonny clears his throat and rubs his hands over his thighs. “I was hoping to do this, later.” 

Patrick shrugs.

“Ugh, fuck you. You always have to fuck with my plans. Just remember we could be making out right now instead of doing this.”

“Jonny…”

“Yeah, okay. I—" He takes a deep breath. "I don’t want to come out.”

Patrick nods. He’s not exactly surprised, here. He’s never thought about it, to be honest, them being together, never let himself. Jonny’s the only dude Patrick’s been into beyond mere attraction, but he’d let his want settle into this low simmering longing inside of him; it wasn’t ever supposed to be real.

As usual, Jonny had to go and fuck around with Patrick’s well-established boundaries. 

“I know it’s—” Jonny continues. “I know the right thing to do would be to come out, to set an example, or something. It’d be more… honest. And it would be fairer to you, but—I just—it’s _hockey_ , man.”

“Do you think people would—”

“I don’t know? But I do know it’d be this whole other thing, you know? Like gay players in the NHL, and the interviews and all that shit, and I just—I don’t want that. At all. I just want to keep playing good hockey.”

Jonny rubs at his forehead and looks out at the water. Somewhere far down the banks they can hear people jump from the docks and scream, but mostly it’s quiet, just small waves lapping the sides of the boat, and the occasional bird screaming overhead. The sun burns on Patrick’s arms and toes, and he curls his feet under the seat, in the shadows.

Patrick gets it. The media circus it would be, not just being out, but him and Jonny being together, with their history, it’d be… fuck, it’d be horrible. And it’d be forever attached to their names while they play. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is, and Patrick can’t really help that. Nor can Jonny.

“What about our families?” Patrick says.

“Pat,” Jonny says, “I’d never asked you to keep that from your family. It’s not—I’m not _ashamed_. I just don’t want this thing to be linked to my career, to take focus away from, you know.”

It would sound harsh and selfish for most people, but Patrick just _gets_ it. It’s hockey. And Jonny. Jonny, who’s staring down at his hands hanging between his knees with a pained look on his face—scared and worried.

“Stop looking like a goddamn martyr,” Patrick says. “You’re right.” Jonny looks up at him, eyes wide. “But I’m gonna tell my family and maybe Sharpy, and some friends I trust. I can’t—I don’t want it to be a dirty secret.”

“Me neither. I’ve told my family already, actually. Well—they know why you’re here. More or less.”

Sweat rolls down Patrick’s back. Across from him, he can see it shimmer on Jonny’s skin, can see his hair curling wet at the nape of his neck and around his ears where it got longer. “What do we do, then, when the season starts?”

Jonny shrugs. “I figure most of what we do usually? Except hopefully with more… you know.”

“Fucking?”

“Yeah.”

“Screwing?”

“Yes.”

“Bumping uglies?”

“Jesus, yes. All of it. If you want.”

“I do like that part of the plan best.”

Jonny kicks him on the shin. “Me too. I mean, we always sort of hang out, and if you spend the night at my place or me at yours, it’s not like we haven’t done that before, or anything. No one will know which room we’re using.”

“Yeah, and like, I seriously won’t cry if I don’t get to hold your hand in public and everything, you know? Like, I’m sure it’d be nice, but it’s okay if we don’t.”

Jonny stretches his legs out until he’s got Patrick’s calf between his, skin burning and sweaty, hair scratching. Patrick stretches his back to feel the friction.

“And we have summers,” Jonny says with a look around. “You can go see your family, but we can come back here too, later. It’s far enough we won’t be bothered. Or we can find another place, if you want. Something closer, just—just ours or whatever.”

“I want you to come to Buffalo, too,” Patrick says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come to Buffalo, Jonny.”

Jonny lowers his head, clears his throat. “We can still go on dates and everything. If we don’t get all PDA, it’s just going to look like we’re hanging out.”

“You want to take me on dates?” It makes something warm and bright and surprising bloom in Patrick’s chest. 

Jonny grins, sweet and shy at him. “Yeah, Pat. I want to date the fuck out of you. I don’t want to just fuck you.”

“Oh.”

“Unless—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, asshole.”

Jonny laughs, and rubs the back of his neck with his hand again, fingers pushing in the muscles there. And Patrick—fuck, he can do that for Jonny now. Touch him, and help him with the cricks in his neck and shoulders, slide his fingers in his hair and nuzzle his cheek. He’ll drag Jonny over him, the way he’s imagined a few times when he was single and lonely and craving something he thought he’d never have. He’ll settle Jonny’s weight on him and just breathe him in, and spend days and days just staring at his stupid face and feel utterly ridiculous about the way he loves everything about it. Patrick should loathe himself more for the sappiness, for falling for such a fucking over-competitive dork. Except he doesn’t. Not one bit.

“I thought this would be more difficult,” Jonny says, and Patrick shakes his head, so fucking fond, because he looks affronted it wasn’t such a goddamn battle.

“Well. You said ‘jump’,” Patricks says, avoids Jonny’s questioning look. “You know, I’m like, fucking gone over you, right?”

Something, some weight, seeps out of Jonny. He looks lighter, the lines of him not so coiled and tight, just soft and sort of hazy in the low afternoon light, like he was at the airport, except now Patrick can look at him, see him, and it feels complete.

“So, are you going to kiss me now?” Jonny grins.

“Oh, I’m going to do more than kiss you, believe me.” Patrick reaches out and takes Jonny’s beer from his hands, put it down beside his after taking a sip. The sun is still beating overhead, and the air is so warm and wet, they could probably drink directly from it. Maybe they can swim later, push their overheated skins into the cool water, trace drops with their tongues until they can feel goosebumps under them. Maybe Patrick will stretch Jonny on the docks and mouth at the wetness around his muscles, lap the lake and sun and salt off of him. Patrick’s whole body thrums with anticipation, the way it does before a game, or right at the moment where he knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s going to score (heh). 

“You ready?” he says, and pushes Jonny’s cap off his head, leans over him so Jonny has to look up at him, face open, crooked smile stretching his lips and cheeks under Patrick’s hands.

“Yeah, Pat. I’m ready.”

 

 


End file.
